Fanfiction of Fanfiction
by seemsseamingly
Summary: Here are my fics for the wonderful Machines Don't Bleed, the final to a series by ChaosandMayhem, and Foe Yay, by ILoveTeamFortressToo. I own none of these characters, I just love them a lot (except you, Renard). Please check out their works!
1. The Waiting Room

Everyone keeps looking at Renard. As the sole BLU Spy in the waiting room, he'd expected it, but still, it annoys him. The others–three snipers and two spies–are all perched on hard plastic chairs on the other side of the room, as far away from him as they can get. He studies them.

William, his team's sniper, is lounging in the corner, head tilted back, arms crossed and fingers tapping idly on his stomach. He'd quietly shaken hands with the others, then slumped down in his chair. He hasn't said a word since he came in.

Nathaniel, _his_ sniper, is sitting stiffly–back straight and hands folded–in the chair closest to the door. Renard can't tell with the sunglasses, but he would bet good money that the man's eyes are on him.

Seated next to him is Antoine, engaged in quiet, boring conversation with the other RED spy. It's hard to come up with something to talk about between two special agents under non-disclosure agreements, but they're managing, comparing small differences between their bases, the other RED sniper chiming in now and then.

In his mind, he compares the two marksmen. For starters, Nathaniel's sunglasses had a yellowish tint, while the other sniper's were more orange. They both had the same basic uniform, though the other sniper had an extra watch along with a woven leather wristband, and his shirt was more unbuttoned than his sniper's. They wore slightly different pants. Nathaniel was an inch or two shorter, but not as tan, probably due to the months he spent inside during his imprisonment. And then, of course, there was the scar.

 _See,_ _it_ is _good_ _for_ _something,_ he felt like gloating. Nathaniel's hand had twitched towards his face when he met his counterpart, and Spy had had to bite back a grin as he shook the RED spy's hand.

The spies . . . it was easy to tell the difference between the old spy and himself; Antoine's face was squarer, and he had faint lines around his mouth and bags under his eyes that never quite went away. And their team colors, of course. But this new spy unnerved him. They were the same height. They had the same nose. They both had grey-blue eyes, though the other spy's seemed warmer. Weaker, he told himself. _Just_ _like_ _Antoine._ _He_ _cares_ _too_ _much._

It was true. The new spy cared about the sniper, he could tell. The way they gravitated toward each other, the way they exchanged looks and nods. He hadn't expected their reaction to meeting him, though. When he had walked into the room, their heads had shot up, and they looked hopeful–cautiously, painfully hopeful–before their expressions slid into practiced calm and underhanded animosity. The sniper's knee had subtly pressed against the spy's in a gesture of comfort. Did he have a counterpart too? Another BLU spy, one they seemed to know well?

. . . .

Nathaniel sat rigid in his chair, his eyes the only part of him moving. Hidden by his glasses, he nervously studied the other men in the room.

The BLU sniper is slumped in the corner, he'd merely nodded as he'd shaken Nathaniel's hand, then taken his seat without a word. To his left is the RED ppy, from Nathaniel's own team. He's making polite small talk with the other RED Spy; even with matching uniforms, it's easy to tell them apart. The new spy has a narrower face with blue-grey eyes, and he carries much less warmth with him then Nathaniel's own spy does. However, he seems to soften a bit when it comes to the other sniper, even Nathaniel can tell that much.

The other sniper . . . doesn't unnerve him like he thought he would. The BLU sniper is older, and while he'd be a good body double, they're easy to tell apart up close. But the other RED sniper could be his twin–albeit years older. They have the same the loping stride, stick out ears, gangly limbs, and big hands. There are enough small differences, however, to balance out the similarities; the other sniper has faint wrinkles, for starters, from age and squinting in the sun. He has two watches, for some odd reason, along with a leather wristband. His clothes seem looser, more causal, even though they wear the same uniform. Perhaps it's the way the other man wears them; his collar unbuttoned, something Nath now sees as a vulnerability, thanks the the BLU spy.

 _The_ _BLU_ _spy._ Another difference. Though the other sniper does have a scar on his face, it's significantly smaller and less disfiguring than his own.

His eyes flick the the opposite corner of the room, and he has to hold back a shudder as he catches the BLU spy's gaze. There's no way the other man can see through his sunglasses, but he feels exposed, nonetheless. He looked down at his feet, wondering if there's another BLU spy somewhere. There hadn't been one when they arrived, just the two REDs, but you never knew with spies.


	2. Gossip

Scout furrowed his brow as he stared at the pair. "I dunno, man. I mean, I've been tah my brother's weddings and stuff, but it's not like I took notes on the freakin' flower arrangements."

"I've never even been to one wedding," Blake said helplessly. "I wouldn't even know where to start."

Irene folded her arms, suit squeaking. "That's what y'all got me for. Mine wasn't too fancy, but I know the basics."

The three of them were sitting in a jumble of sun warmed rocks, watching Sniper and Spy argue.

They were also planning the pair's wedding, but nobody needed to know that.

"Look, all I'm sayin' is Spy would totally be the girl."

"Yeah, I can't imagine Mister Lawrence in a dress."

They all snickered at the thought, muffling their laughs as Spy glanced over.

Irene coughed and straightened up. "Knowing Spy, it would be the fanciest, prissiest dress you could find."

"Yeah, with like lace and feathers and shit."

Blake frowned. "Feathers?"

"Yea dumbass, clean out your ears. For like, decoration an' shit."

" _Nobody_ would put feathers on a wedding dress."

"What, are you a fashion expert or somethin'? Sew little dresses in yah spare time?"

"Uh, guys"

"No," Blake sniffed, "I just have taste, that's all."

"Boys."

"Hey, who's the one who's actually seen a wedding here?"

Blake glared at him, and then jumped as Spy spoke up from behind them.

"And why, exactly, are you two arguing over dresses?"

Irene put her hands up in a 'don't shoot' motion. "I've got no part in this."

Sniper rolled his eyes. "Well you lot can finish yer fashion debate in tha' van. I've figured out where we are," he said, throwing a glare at Spy, "No thanks tah Phil."

Spy narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't the one driving, _Lawrence._ "

"No, you were the one reading the dang map."

"It is not my fault you were too thick-headed to listen. My directions were flawless."

"You were too busy whinin' to say anything useful!"

"I couldn't help myself, your van is a disgrace to cars everywhere. The fumes were making me addled."

"Don't need fumes tah do that," Sniper muttered.

Spy opened his mouth to fling an insult back, but was cut off by Pyro. "If y'all are done arguing about who's fault it is, I'd like to get back on the road. We should've been in Idaho an hour ago."

Sniper huffed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Roight. You lot ready ta go?"

Blake and Scout scrambled to their feet, brushing dust of their pants. "Yeah, we're good," Scout said. He grinned at Blake. "Race ya." He took off, Blake sprinting determinedly after him, holding his hardhat on his head with one hand.

Pyro chuckled. "Boys."

The three of them headed back to the van at a slower pace. Behind her, Sniper and Spy resumed their argument.

She grinned. Spy would definitely be the one in the dress.


	3. Something Bright and Liquid

Philippe

He was cornered, trapped, and he knew it. Cloak or no, the BLU Pyro would fill the room with flames, and he would burn with it. Images rose in his head, unbidden, at the hiss of the gas light:

Waking up to screams, and rushing out the door to see their neighbor's shop burning, windows smashed, glass littering the street. His mother pulls him back inside and slams the door shut, locking it as Henri starts to wail from the next room.

Another memory–the first time the 'showers' in his camp were used. Everyone looked up as the screams started, guards and prisoners alike. People began to scream in return, faces paling as they recognized the sounds of their loved ones in pain, dying. Philippe heard nothing. He didn't know which was worse–your last memory of them being their screams, or not hearing them at all, instead picturing Antoine and Henri trampled underfoot, ashes covering their small bodies.

Guards torturing him, burning his skin with their lighters as he struggled not to cry out, because this was nothing compared to what his brothers must of felt.

Philippe looked down at his hands.

 _They_ _were_ _ungloved._ _Water_ _bubbled_ _up_ _from_ _his_ _palms,_ _cooling_ _his_ _wrists_ _and_ _dripping_ _off_ _his_ _fingers._ _Tiny_ _reflections_ _danced_ _on_ _its_ _surface:_ Getting to drink as much water as he wanted, clean and cold.

Showering in the mornings, refreshing; showering at night, washing away the stress and exertions of the day.

Playing in the fountain in St. Marks Square with Antoine.

Lawrence teaching him how to fish in a tiny lake–a 'billabong,' he called it–and trying to get him to kiss the fish when he finally caught one.

Washing his hands, soap sliding between his finger and coating his skin with pearly bubbles, then watching it all swirl down the drain.

He doesn't look up at the roar of the flamethrower, just closes his eyes. The white ceiling of the respawn room is there when he opens them again.

Lawrence

The breath left his lungs with a splash as he landed in the sewers. He could hear the BLU Soldier laughing at him from up where he had kicked him down. Something splashed behind him, and suddenly he was back in that lake, Phil standing on the shore, hating him, and the crocodile below, hunting him.

Other memories rushed by: his father taking him to swim at the beach when he was small, swimming out too far, and getting caught by the current. The waves had yanked him under and pulled him this way and that, and he had tried to find air, but the water had rushed in instead. He was only under for a few seconds before his father grabbed him by the back of his bathing suit and dumped him back on the sand, but for weeks afterwards he had nightmares of seawater stealing his every breath, dragging him under.

Shooting at a crocodile when he was young and stupid, then going out to see if it was dead. It nearly broke his ankle, and he splashed around in panic, the water was murky with blood and silt and it wanted to kill him. He had to hobble back to camp, leaning on his rifle, with nothing to show for his troubles.

Skipping stones in a pond after school, Jack and his buddies finding him and pushing him in, laughing and jeering as his glasses flew off and he stumbled around in panic, wanting to get out but unable to see.

Nightmares created from a memory he's can't remember, sinking down and down and down, the light fading, bubbles spewing out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tries to keep them. As his ears start to ring, he gazes dumbly at his escaping air, watching it glisten and pop. One small part of his mind is screaming at him, to stop staring at the bubbles and do something. But he can't, because deep down he doesn't want to. This is a better death than the one he's undoubtedly brought on himself, wasting away slowly till he won't even recognize it when he dies.

Lawrence closes his eyes as a rocket screams towards him. This is better. This is better.

When he respawns, he doesn't open his eyes for a long time. He hears Pyro clump past him, gas light hissing, and forces himself to picture something good. A dim recollection of his parents teaching him how to make s'mores, fingers sticky, his father's glasses reflecting the firelight.

 _He_ _cups his hands together as they start to warm._

Countless nights alone under the stars, listening to the fire crackle.

Sitting on a log with Phil, laughing until his sides ached, watching Phil fall off the log, then laughing even harder as sparks flickered up to join the stars.

 _A spark flickers to life between his fingers._

Camping with Lizzie and Christian, the two of them teasing Lawrence about his cooking–'medium burnt,' they'd said. He'd just stuffed his cheeks with blackened meat and laughed right back at them. They'd put the fire out, usually turning the sand heap into a makeshift sand castle, before going to sleep under the velvet sky.

 _He can see, in his mind's eye, a flame growing in his hands, burning away the awful numbness the water brings._

He takes a few deep breathes, then hoists himself up off the ground and picks up his rifle.

 _The wood is warm ans dry under his hands._

He has a job to do.


	4. Happy Christmas

There was no snow to mark the Christmas season, but Phillippe didn't mind it as much this year. He was following Lawrence around the mall as the sniper struggled to find the right gifts in the crowded shopping centre. A wry grin crossed his face. At least he'd never lose the taller man amongst all the people.

"Phil!"

Jolted out of his thoughts, Phillippe stuck his hands in his pockets and slouched over to where Lawrence was standing. He frowned. "What the 'ell is that?"

Lawrence scrunched up his face and tilted his head, a look that never failed to make him laugh.

"I think it's some sorta hair thingy." He turned it over, searching for a label. Phillippe sighed.

"Lawrence, that's a clam shucker. I highly doubt Elizabeth would appreciate it."

"Oh." He frowned and put it back on the shelf. "I dunno, think she'd loike a book?"

"…You are hopeless. Give me the list."

—

An hour later, the had procured almost all the gifts. A new mixer for Dottie, a nightlight for Lauren that projected stars onto the ceiling, perfume and a leather bound copy of King Arthur for Liz. Lawrence's carved presents were already wrapped, and they had picked out a watch for Senior last week. The only present left was for Christian.

"He could use some new boots," Lawrence mused. Phillippe, his arms full of packages, struggled to keep up with his loping strides. He scanned the stores with a bored gaze.

"Hey, what about this? Phil? Phil?" Lawrence glanced around. Where could he of run off to? A bell jingled and he snapped his head around. There. A flash of blue pinstripes disappearing into … a pet store? Through the glass storefront he could see rows of tanks and cages, children tugging their parents this way and that. Frowning, he stuffed the list in his pocket and headed over. Pushing the door open with another jingle, he wove his way through the crowd. Phil didn't like animals, really. What was he doing? He shouldered past a group of teenagers, and there he was. He was standing a few feet back from a wire pen, hands in pockets, staring at something. The shopping bags were on the ground near his feet.

Lawrence came up behind him. "Phil? Wot'r you…" he trailed off. A litter of puppies was rolling around on a blanket.

"I thought," he said quietly, not looking at the other man, "that 'e… 'e 'as not thrown away 'er collar, 'as 'e?" Lawrence studied him quietly. Kida had been Christian's constant companion for years, and weathered wildlife, heat, and Australian teens. She had met her match going up against Giancarlo, however. Though he tried to hide it, it was obvious that Christian missed her.

"No, he hasn't. Still has some dog food too, I think." He studied the pups for a moment, then reached down and picked one up. The runt of the litter, it was a patchy brown and white with a tail like a flag and ridiculously big ears. It snuffled at Lawrence's hands excitedly as he held it out to Phil.

"Wot do ya think?"

Phillippe eyed it dismissively. Mission accomplished, he quickly reverted back to his usual sneering self.

"I don't care. They all look the same." He pulled out his cigarette case and was in the process of lighting up when a nervous looking employee in a red apron tapped his shoulder.

"Uh, sir? You can't smoke in here. It's not allowed." Phillippe glared at him. Lawrence quickly stepped between them.

"How much fer the dog?" At the promise of a paying customer, the boy straightened his shoulders and plastered a smarmy grin on his round face.

"Only fifty dollars, a real bargain! Purebred border collie right there! Great for herding good with kids; and if you'd like to come this way I can get you set up with some supplies."

Lawrence shook his head and shifted the pup to one arm as he pulled out his wallet. "Nah, were good. Thanks, mate." He stuffed some crumpled bills in the man's hand and stooped to pick up their bags. "C'mon Phil. Let's go."

Shooting one last look at the salesman, Phillippe followed.

—

"Oh thank you, Mum! She'll look adorable in these!" Putting aside the stack of dresses for Lauren, Liz leaned over to give her mother a hug. The Mundys, plus Christian and Phillippe, were gathered in the living room, exchanging gifts. Lauren gurgled and waved around a scrap of wrapping paper in her tiny fist. Carols played softly on the background.

As Liz plopped the next present onto Senior's lap, Lawrence leaned over to Phillippe. "You should go get the dog now," he whispered.

Phillippe darted a glance at Christian, who was making faces for Lauren. "You go get it," he hissed back.

"You're sneakier than me," Lawrence argued. "You can just slip out." Phillippe glared at him for a minute, and the gave up.

"Fine. But if it ruins my suit, you're buying me a new one." He waited until everyone's eyes were on Dottie, and then ducked out.

—

Christian wiped his eyes as the laughter subsided. "Ah, that was a good one, Mundy," he said. He glanced around the room. "Hey, where'd Pete run off too?" Dottie and Liz looked up with identical frowns.

"Lawrence, where's Phil?"

Lawrence grinned at Christian. "Out gettin' your present. We left it in the van."

"In the van? What'd ya get me, a hover bike?" He laughed. "Seriously, Mundy. The two of you better of n-"

"Arf!"

All eyes turned towards the kitchen doorway, where Phillippe was standing, holding a wiggling puppy at arms length. It wagged it's tail furiously at the sight of more people, and he shot Lawrence a glare as white hairs settled on his jacket. Christian stood up slowly.

"You got this for me?" He stared and Phil with wide eyes.

"Yup." Lawrence stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We couldn't stand you mopin' around the house. Gettin' on Phil's nerves. Merry Christmas."

Christian beamed. "Thanks, you two. I do miss Kida." He took the pup from the scowling spy, and ruffled it's ears. It licked his fingers and he laughed. He smiled up at Phillippe. "Thanks, Phil. Happy Christmas."

The End


	5. Shatter

Work Text:

Blake looked frantically for another door, a ventilation shaft, a way out. He was tugging on the rusty window lock when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"… Blakey?"

No. No no no, no no no no NO, _please_. Not him. Not this.

The room was too still, too quiet as he turned around.

Scout was standing in the doorway, arms stiff, fingers twitching. He licked his lips, opened his mouth, closed it again, then set his jaw and asked, "Is it true?"

Blake couldn't look at him.

"Look at me!" Scout's voice shook. "Is. It. True!"

"I'm sorry, Scout." His voice was rough, choked with unshed tears.

A hand fisted in his shirt. "Look at me." Blake stared dumbly at the bloodstained hand wraps, the short, jagged nails, the boney and calloused fingers, then lifted his head to meet Scout's eyes.

Whatever the other man saw in his face made him drop Blake like a hot iron. There was a pause, the sound of shaky breathing filling the room, then Scout turned and ran, each receding footstep tearing another piece of his heart away.

Scout's cleats pounded against the cracked linoleum, steps echoing down the hallway as his feet tried to keep pace with his pounding heart. Everyone always let him down. First his father, then his older brother, then Spy, and now Blake.

 _Blake_. The one person he thought he could always count on, even though he was the one person he was never supposed to trust. He angrily scrubbed away tears as he skidded to a stop, finally outside.

Well, he'd learned his lesson. He'd learned it damn well, and he wouldn't let anyone ever hurt him that way again.


End file.
